


Careful, You'll Break Me

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken Bone, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:43:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out that Sherlock isn't as strong as he once thought, that he can indeed break. Of course, it would have been nice if he'd been told before it happened.<br/>Prompt fill (sort of).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Considering all the stupid stunts Sherlock did, and all the life threatening situations he got into, John was rather amused to find that while he may have been injured during those, none of those injuries were as debilitating as when Sherlock tripped over flat ground and broke his arm.

 

Even more surprisingly, Sherlock didn't protest about going to the hospital, and instead was the one who suggested it.

“Really?” John had asked, shocked.

Sherlock scowled at him. “I've broken enough bones to tell when they are indeed broken John.”

John had shrugged. “Alright then.”

So Sherlock perched his arm on a pillow and they hopped into a cab.

“I still can't believe you fell over nothing,” John muttered.

Sherlock glared at him. “I have loose joints,” he defended.

John snorted. “That's never stopped you before.”

Sherlock pouted silently for the rest of the ride.

 

It was a relatively quiet afternoon in A&E and Sherlock was given a bed rather quickly.

The attending doctor showed up shortly after.

“Call my orthopaedist,” Sherlock ordered, giving him the name. The man frowned at him, but nodded and left.

John looked at him. “Really Sherlock?” he said skeptically.

Sherlock scowled at him. “I find it's quicker when I order, rather than request.”

John shook his head. “It's not how the world works.”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock countered, smirking.

“How's the arm?”

“Broken, and as such, painful.”

 

The doctor returned. “I've got orders for x-rays and painkillers. Non-narcotic.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded, swallowing the pills provided.

A nurse entered with a wheelchair, and John expected him to protest, but Sherlock just hopped lightly off the bed and slouched in the chair, pillow still perched carefully on his lap.

 

The process of getting x-rays was quick, and for John, painless, although he doubted the same for Sherlock, who was forced to move his wrist this way and that for different views. And while Sherlock never said anything, he could see the strain on his face. But there were no complaints, and the woman who was positioning his arm almost... it couldn't have been a smile, could it? No one smiles at Sherlock.

John was utterly baffled. Perhaps he was acting. Or saying funny things because of the drugs.

One never knew.

The nurse returned Sherlock to his curtained off area in A&E, again, no protest from Sherlock about being wheeled around.

Surely this couldn't be the Sherlock Holmes that John knew, not the same man who, only a week ago, had made Molly cry (again), simply by offering his opinion on her blog. (It was an awful opinion, but not one that John thought was too horrific.) The man who could cry at will to prove a point, lie through his teeth to further a case, and absolutely refuse to do anything he didn't want to. (A point which was demonstrated by the time John had to drug Sherlock's tea just to get him to sleep, because he insisted after six days, that he _still wasn't tired._ )

No, this wasn't that Sherlock at all. Perhaps a brain tumour?

It was only when they were back in the curtained off space, Sherlock situated in the bed again that John's theory was shot down.

“Jooooohn, I'm boooored,” he whined.

“I don't know what you expect me to do about that,” he replied tiredly.

“Entertain me,” he replied.

John frowned at him. “With what? I can't conjure up a murder.”

Sherlock scowled at that, and John wondered for half a second if Sherlock had actually wanted him to do that.

Sherlock kicked his legs a little, much like a child stomping their feet while having a temper tantrum, except it must have shifted his arm and hurt.

Apparently Sherlock just wanted something else to complain about.

“My arm hurts,” he moaned.

John could only nod. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not at this abrupt change in behaviour. Of course, considering everything else that had happened that day, he couldn't be bothered to figure it out.

 

“Surgery?”he asked the orthopaedist when he entered the room, sticking x-rays into the light box for both of them to see.

John noted the fractures. Two very obvious ones in the long bones, and perhaps a crack in one of the carpals. The scaphoid, he thought it was. Non-displaced, but still. Three fractures was plenty.

John also noted the presence of calluses that indicated previous fractures. At least three, in varying places on the bones of the forearm and numerous broken fingers. John was rather alarmed. Such startling patterns of damage were often indicative of child abuse.

He snuck a glance at Sherlock, who was simply looking at the doctor, waiting for a response.

“No, not this time. We'll just cast it. They're non-displaced and should heal well enough, as long as you don't stress them. Use the sling this time Sherlock, for heaven's sake.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I don't like the sling,” he muttered.

“Too damn bad,” John told him.

The orthopaedist grinned. “I'll be right back with a tech and we'll get you casted. Colour preference?”

“Black this time I think.”

The man nodded and left.

“ _This time?”_ John hissed.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes at him.

 

Thank god it was his left arm and not his right. John didn't know what he would have done had Sherlock been unable to write, click, text, and gesture effectively for the next month or so.

 

True to his word, the orthopaedist returned shortly after with a young woman, not giving John a chance to pry further. They casted Sherlock's arm in silence, which John suspected was the way Sherlock preferred it. When they were done it was rather impressive, as well as daunting, extending from the tip of his thumb to up above his elbow.

 _Sling indeed,_ John thought.

The tech left and the orthopaedist finished smoothing the cast down, getting any excess water off of it.

“Pretty good record I suppose,” he noted. “It's been... three years since I saw you last.”

Sherlock nodded, but John suspected he wasn't listening at all. The man could have said “I heard you've joined the circus,” and Sherlock would have nodded.

He finished, snapping off his gloves and telling them to call in for a follow up appointment, and left.

There was something about the whole situation that was bothering John.

“Sherlock,” John began, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why do you have an orthopaedist?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “John, in case you haven't noticed, which you should have if you'd glanced at my x-rays, I get a lot of broken bones. Surely that hasn't escaped you.”

John sighed. “Yeah, of course I know that. Most people who break a lot of bones don't have one doctor, unless they have an underlying condition.”

Sherlock was silent, unfolding his shirt to put back on.

“Sherlock?”

“OI,” Sherlock said carefully, examining his arm. “Type I luckily.”

“And you didn't think to tell me?” John gaped at him.

Sherlock shrugged his shirt back on, taking care with the still wet cast.

“I thought you knew. That somehow Mycroft had told you, and you kept it a secret, but knew. Suppose I was wrong.”

He twisted half of his mouth up in a grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock refused to sit in a wheelchair on the way out of the hospital, which relieved John more than anything. And he was wearing the sling, but who knew how long that would last.

He hailed a cab with his unbroken arm and slid in.

They rode in silence for a bit, until Sherlock spoke.

“Alright, you've got questions.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Already answered that,” he said flatly, looking out the window.

“Hardly...” John muttered.

“The question should be, why didn't you notice?”

John gaped at him. “This isn't my fault! I can't be blamed for not noticing something you barely had any indicators of.”

“It's a bit unusual, because I'm average height, or even above average compared to you.” He smirked.

“Hey!” John protested. He slapped Sherlock across the upper arm. “Twat.”

“John,” Sherlock whined. “Don't do that. You'll _break_ me!”

John paled and began to apologize. “Oh god, I forgot. I'm sorry. Do we have to go back to A&E-”

“John,” Sherlock said firmly. “I was joking.”

“Oh,” John sighed, visibly relieved. “I should hit you again for that,” he scowled.

Sherlock smirked at him.

“Anyway, I'm of average height, and considering my field of work, I actually haven't broken things very often. Of course, most of my fractures occurred before puberty.” He shook his head. “You should have seen me the one year, the summer when I was ten. I broke both legs, a collar bone, and a bunch of fingers. You can imagine how well that went.”

John pictured it. A Sherlock unable to walk, probably bored out of his mind. He'd probably set something on fire, or kill someone if that happened today.

“As you can imagine, that year was... hellish to say the least.”

John nodded.

“However, that was the year I learned Latin, Greek, German, and Mandarin, which I suppose came in handy.”

John snorted. “That explains a lot.”

They reached Baker Street and Sherlock hopped out, leaving John to pay yet again.

Meeting Sherlock at the door, John continued. “Do you know any other languages?”

“Of course. French, Hindi, Spanish, and Russian. And those are just the ones I'm fluent in. I have basics in a whole bunch of other languages as well, including Arabic, BSL, and Italian.”

John only shook his head as he unlocked the door. “Impressive.”

Sherlock smirked at him as he headed up the stairs. “Mycroft would tell you otherwise. He's fluent in upwards of ten.”

“Why am I not surprised...” John muttered.

“Comes in handy for the ruling the world bit.”

John snorted.

 

Sherlock collapsed in his chair, unwinding the sling from around his neck and throwing it across the room.

Sherlock waved his good arm at John, who was already opening his mouth to protest.

“I'm just going to be sitting here. It can rest on a pillow.”

He looked pointedly at John as he said that, and John whipped the flag pillow at him.

“Lazy sod,” he muttered.

Sherlock only shrugged, settling his arm and looking at his laptop mournfully.

“Oh for the love... I'm not getting it for you until you answer some questions.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but seemed to relent.

“Okay. Give me a basic history.”

“This is the first time I'd broken a bone in... oh, two years. A pretty good track record.”

John snorted. “No, this is the first time you've gone to the hospital for a broken bone. Because I know that you broke ribs last month, and broke a finger three months before that.”

Sherlock stopped fiddling with the pillow and examined him. “You've been keeping track,” he said with mild interest.

John shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. I can't help it. I'm a doctor, and I care about you, so I like to keep track of when you get hurt. You know, for those pesky medical records. Speaking of which... Is there anything else I should know about?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I had my last bone density scan seven months ago and the results were fine. I had rodding surgery when I was eleven on both my femurs.”

 _Another year essentially ruined,_ John thought, but nodded for him to continue.

“I don't show any signs of hearing loss yet, and go for checkups every year for that. And, in case you haven't noticed, my eyes don't show any signs of being blue.”

John nodded. If he'd noticed that, he would have been far more suspicious far sooner.

“And the loose joints...” he realized.

“Believe me now?” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Don't think I'll hesitate to slap you!” he warned. He winced at a memory of being told to punch him. “God, I wish you'd told me before I hit you. I could have broken something.”

Sherlock waved a hand at him. “Then you wouldn't have hit me at all. It was necessary.”

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock tended to have different definitions from the rest of the world.

“You really shouldn't smoke you know,” John commented.

Sherlock scowled. “Of course I know that. It's why I quit.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Is it really?” he murmured.

Sherlock glared at him and John only shrugged innocently.

“Laptop,” he demanded.

John handed it to him without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

They spent the rest of the week at home, Sherlock lounging on the couch in his housecoat, looking mournfully at his experiments and plucking out haunting tunes on his violin with one hand. John was truly shocked to not have any more holes in the wall by the end of the week.

 

Thankfully, a case came up shortly after Sherlock began to grow restless. Not a moment too soon.

Sherlock insisted that John pin his sleeve to the side of his coat before they went to the scene, not wanting it to flap around when he twirled about, doing his deductions. (He might not have used those exact words, but that was what John had taken from it.) His arm was in the sling underneath.

The cab ride was silent, only interrupted by Sherlock's occasionally muttering about the difficulties of using his phone one handed.

John took deep breath and reminded himself it could have been the right arm.

They didn't arrive at the crime scene a minute too soon.

Lestrade and his team were already there waiting for him.

“What'd you break this time?” Lestrade asked, lifting up the crime scene tape with a sigh.

“Radius, ulna, and scaphoid,” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade whistled. “New record?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, that's four.”

John stared between them, Lestrade still holding up the tape.

“You knew?” he demanded. “You knew that Sherlock had osteogenesis imperfecta and you never told me.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Sorry mate. Thought you knew.”

John ducked under the tape, shaking his head. “You crazy people and your assumptions. I don't know everything, just for further reference. I'm not Sherlock bloody Holmes after all.”

He stood back and watched bitterly as Sherlock examined the body, still managing to be impressive with one arm.

 

He solved the case easily, this one not involving any sort of chase or stakeout, which relieved John to no end. It was open and close, so simple that John suspected Lestrade hadn't even needed the help, but had called Sherlock just to get him out of the flat.

 

John spent a large portion of that evening drawing on Sherlock's cast with a white marker he had picked up on his weekly run to Tesco's.

Sherlock spent most of that time pecking out a blog post one handedly on the importance of footprints, which had indeed weighed heavily in this case. It would go along nicely with the write up John would post on his blog later.

 

“Looks good,” John declared when he finished. It was mostly true. One would never confuse him for an artist, but at least it looked halfway decent, covered in a fairly accurate representation of the bones and their fractures, assorted molecules, a fingerprint swirl, and Sherlock's iconic magnifying glass.

“It is rather nice,” Sherlock noted, surveying it closely. “Much better looking than any of the ones I had as a child. Even though I did get some striped, or glow in the dark, and the occasional camouflage one when I was in my animal observation stage...” he trailed off, remembering.

“Striped?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. He'd seen children in striped casts before, usually bright neon clashing colours. He couldn't picture Sherlock in anything like that, even as a child.

Sherlock nodded. “Want to see?”

“Um... sure.”

Sherlock got up and John wondered if he was getting pictures, or if he should follow him. When he vanished into his bedroom, and called for John, he sighed, getting to his feet and trudging in. What he saw shocked him.

John whistled. “Bloody hell Sherlock. No wonder the rest of the flat's a mess. You've got nowhere to put your things.”

Instead of Sherlock's closet being packed with scarves, book, and button up shirts like it should have been, it was instead a rainbow of assorted casts.

“I kept them all,” he said with a shrug.

John collapsed on the floor in front of the stack and looked at it in awe. He pulled a bunch out and examined them.

Arm casts of all types, short ones and long ones, ones that were from when Sherlock was a child, and ones that were newer. Leg casts too, also ranging in size. And other things John didn't even recognize. Most of them weren't decorated. It was kind of sad.

“What's this one from?” John asked, pulling out a strange one that he hadn't seen used on a patient before. It was like a leg cast, but seemed to wrap around the waist, and was small, probably from when Sherlock was still a toddler.

“Broken femur. Age three.”

“Does this one glow in the dark?” John pulled out a leg cast, one that extended above the knee. It had black dots on it, and seemed to be the sort of yellowy shade that could glow in the dark.

Sherlock nodded. “Some constellations,” he pointed out, gesturing to the dots.

John smirked. “Don't care about the solar system,” he scoffed. “Whatever.”

The closet was full of them, and while John would have liked to hear the stories behind each of them, he knew there wasn't time for that now.

So he changed the subject slightly.

“How many broken bones did you have as a kid?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Probably a higher than normal number for someone with my type of OI, _(lies,_ John thought, _he knew exactly how many)_ but that was mostly because I never stayed still. It helped for the physical therapy side, strengthening my muscles, but I was accident prone.” He shook his head. “I still can't believe they let me have a tree house.”

John grinned. “When were you diagnosed?”

“When I fell out of the tree house at age four. The doctors were already suspicious before that when I broke my femur at age three.”

John knew what that meant. “When I first saw the x-ray, I wondered if you were abused,” John admitted.

Sherlock only nodded. “A common response. One that my parents were unfortunately accused of.”

It was John's turn to nod. “How did they get it figured out?”

“I told them,” Sherlock said, smirking.

John gaped at him. “No way!”

Sherlock nodded. “I was only four at the time, but my reading skills were exceptional. I couldn't pronounce the technical name, but I was still able to point it out to the doctors. It took me a while to convince them, but once Mycroft got on board...”

“The rest was history,” John finished.

“Exactly.”

John burst out laughing.

Sherlock frowned at him. “What is it?”

“It's just, I'm picturing a four year old you calmly informing the doctors you had diagnosed yourself with a disease. I would give anything to have been there. I bet it was priceless.” He grinned.

Sherlock smiled back. “Yes. I rather suppose it was.”


End file.
